


Junkman's Daughter

by Powerpuffgoil



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Development, Junkertown (Overwatch), Original Character(s), Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Platonic Relationships, Post-Omnic Crisis, cause Im not writing that folks, mentions of underage noncon but nothing carried out, sort of follows the canon but I'm adding my own elements cause there's not much lore for Junkertown, story takes place before Roadhog met Junkrat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Powerpuffgoil/pseuds/Powerpuffgoil
Summary: Mako Rutledge does not consider himself a humanitarian. However, this does not stop him from having human concerns. When he spots a young woman in danger of sexual trafficking, Junkertown's most notorious brute finds himself unable to stop himself from intervening.





	1. This lil piggy walked into town

The evening sun bathed the dusty town in an otherworldly hue of sepia, catching with an intense glare on the yet unrusted portions of the metal slabs and frames that made up the haphazard construction of Junkertown's buildings. The majority of the town's pillagers had since returned from their day-long scavenging, and as temperatures fell and night crept into the Outback, its nightlife began to stir.

Raucous hoodlums donned in spikes and various degrees of disproportionate armor stood solitary or in packs along the street, gesturing wildly in conversation or otherwise leaned coolly against any given surface.

Sweaty and exhausted from the day's affairs, a hulking figure, tall and foreboding, made his way easily through the crowd with little need to excuse himself; not that he cared to do so. Junkertown's one and only pig man had no use for conversation unless the subject at hand happened to be of relevance to his own interests. At large, he didn't care about many people. Most were self-centered at heart and driven by the instinctual desire to survive by any means necessary; suits, religious figures, and especially the Junkers, the people he might have called his own if he didn't deem himself an outcast even among the likes of them.

Mako Rutledge did not consider himself to be a humanitarian. However, that did not stop him from having human concerns. The place he had once called home had been cast to shambles in the wake of the Omnic Crisis. It was a wasteland through and through, even within this facade of a civilization, where criminals ran rampant and it was every man for himself, or more accurately - for the Queen.

The way of life here was truly debilitating on every existential level. Day in and day out it was the same ordeal with seemingly little gain. It was incessant disappointment and weariness. It was investment without profit. It was endlessly working towards a nonexistent goal; but down to a wire it was the will to survive, which took much more than acquiring and consuming basic resources. He was not alone in this sentiment. The Junkers as a whole were all crowded in the same shitty, shabby boat; but even so, there was no one to really rely on.

Thus, Roadhog remained a masked entity with no open invitations for companionship apparent in the way he carried himself. He wasn't lonely by any means. In fact, he preferred his own company. The world was more vivid when you experienced it alone, anyhow.  
He huffed. He was exceptionally grumpy this day.

Old and spent and in dire need of a drink, he lumbered on towards his saloon of choice, shrouded in his own tumultuous thoughts. The place was not far off, but the surrounding crowd of younger Junkers was beginning to grate on his nerves. They were nothing but puny show offs and punks, the lot of them. Didn't help that their taste in music was rubbish, despite how gallantly they blared it through their portable speakers. Who in their right mind could even enjoy contemporary EDM, or EDM at all, for that matter? He groaned.

As he approached the bar, he was not phased by the trio of prostitutes standing idly outside, puffing daintily on cigarettes as they chattered among each other. Normally he wouldn't give them the time of day, but as the tallest of the three lifted her heavily-jeweled hand to wave, he responded with a silent nod, passing them by.  
There was yet another aspect of the wasteland that he often considered with distaste. There was little space for personal relationships in this cut-throat world, and therefore it was commonplace for women to sell themselves on the street for a quick couple of bucks and just a few minutes of intimacy with another human being. He accepted it as their right, but it nonetheless disconcerted him.

Maybe he was a softie after all. Maybe the idea of finding the one to settle down and start a family with was a silly, old fashioned worldview that he could actually get behind, if only the rustbuckets hadn't displaced so many innocents and tarnished their humanity. He snorted. Yeah, right. What's done was done. Such was the state of Oz, and if any doe-eyed girl child managed to blow in via twister she'd be clicking her heels in mad desperation to get the hell out of dodge.

Children in particular had no place in this hell, and it was no surprise to Roadhog that he could count on one hand the occasions he had spotted any after the crisis, two of which were traumatic enough that even he shuddered to think about it. He often wondered if they were deliberately hidden away. It would make sense. People didn't bother leaving kids out of the equation when it came to making a pretty penny. It's just how it was.

Then he spotted her. At first he figured she was just another prostitute, the tinted goggles of his mask leaving him severely nearsighted and spared of some very crucial details. He suddenly froze as he grew closer, realizing he had been gravely mistaken, and yet, he was not.

The first thing he noted was the way that her clothes were over-sized, threatening to slip away from her small frame and leave her cruelly exposed to eager degenerates. It was obvious that the girl felt out of place, and entirely uncomfortable. Knobby kneed, scrawny, and wide-eyed, she stood restlessly fidgeting with the bottom of her too-short skirt as towering passersby shadowed her, paying her no mind.

Roadhog observed her with cautious reservation to see what she would do. Part of him was concerned that he would be out of place standing so still, but the girl didn't seem to notice. She instead seemed to be preoccupied, as if waiting for something - for someone. Time passed, and he grew impatient. He considered shrugging it off and continuing on his way, but something inside him didn't allow him to neglect this child that he knew not.

Something else then caught his attention. A man, emerging from a nearby crowd, his focus trained on the girl. As he approached, her posture faltered and she flinched away when he reached for her arm. He draped his arm loosely around her shoulders instead and led her away.

A drink would have been nice, but Roadhog decided to postpone that plan for a different time as he fell into step behind the pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this shall be my first major fic for Overwatch. I can't remember if the idea came in a dream, or as a random thought that I just had a mighty need to expand upon. Anyway, though, I am eager to write DadHog.  
> Oh and, uh, for those who don't know - Junkman's Daughter is a store. The title came to me and I smiled big and cheesy-like. It fit. Haha.


	2. Bloody Wanker

The girl scurried clumsily up ahead beneath the arm of the man, who seemed intent to take her somewhere in favor of his own lechery. His brisk pace was not easy to keep up with, but Roadhog nonetheless galumphed onward a ways behind, maintaining his sight on the two.

They made their way past several buildings before disappearing around a corner occupied by a large gathering of visibly inebriated Junkers. Roadhog pushed past them when he approached, ignoring their slurred insults. His hurried gate faltered at the realization that the pair was now nowhere to be seen. Slowing to a complete halt, he let out a shallow exhale, his mask slowly oscillating as he scanned the area for any trace of them.

Several minutes passed before he cornered the next Junker to bypass him, inquiring in a threatening rumble as to which direction the child may have gone.

"Oi, bugger off, ya fat cunt! Whaddya want with me? I 'aven't seen no bloody kid!" the man squawked, pushing away from his towering interrogator. Roadhog had a mind to grab the man by the scruff of his collar before he could flee, but was stopped when a shrill scream sounded in the distance. He jerked his mask in the direction it had come from just in time to spot the girl, kicking and flailing in a flurry of limbs as the man dragged her into a doorway with his arms looped about her waist.

The Hog stalked onward, out of breath by the time he was in front of the building that they had disappeared into. He gruffly shouldered the rickety door ajar and stepped in. The interior of the place was sparse for the most part. In the single living area was a shabby couch, chipped wooden table, rusty refrigerator, and what appeared to be several small sacks of coins spilled out onto the floor.

To the left of the entrance was a narrow wooden staircase which groaned beneath Roadhog's mass as he ascended as carefully and quietly as he could manage.  
As he reached the top of the stairway, he could hear a frenzy of hushed whispering and muffled whimpers. He reached for the holster of his scrap gun.

The second floor consisted of a short hallway with two bedrooms at each end. Roadhog peeked in to the doorway of the first room he passed, observing nothing but several empty beer bottles and cigarette butts, and an obsolete television with a severely cracked screen.

The whispering grew louder and more coherent as Roadhog approached the door to the second bedroom. The man was muttering something about how it was his right to do what he wanted with his new pet; that he payed good money and _she had better behave or he'd_ -

That was when Roadhog busted into the bedroom with such ferocity that the wooden door swung open violently and collided with the wall, lopsided and free of one hinge.

At first, Mako said nothing as he beheld the sight before him.  
The man had his victim pinned to the floor, which was littered with filthy blankets and pillows. The kid, much to Hog's relief, was still clothed, but splayed out beneath the glistening form of the shirtless man. Her pleading eyes shot to the large presence filling the doorway and she opened her mouth to only be silenced by a dirty palm before another sound could escape her.

Her assailant, greasy and hook-nosed, turned with a scowl to regard the intruder. "Rack off, mate. This ain't a threesome!"  
Hog's wordless response was a lowly growl as he stepped further into the room, scrap gun raised.

"Blimey, ya want in that badly?" the man slowly released his hold on the girl, who scrambled away from him, hugging her knees to her chest. He rose to stand, raising his trembling hands lazily above his bald head. "Say, but 'stead 'a shootin' me, why dont'cha just go on an' take the lil shiela- I got some gold downstairs too- An' we'll jus' go on' 'bout our separate ways an' forget 'bout all _this_ -"

A shot rang out and the the girl screamed hoarsely as the man buckled and slumped rigidly to the floor, his face and chest a mass of flesh and blood and riddled with twisted fragments of metal.

" _Shut. Up._ " Roadhog growled, lowering his gun.

Sniveling and red-faced, the girl hugged her knees tighter as she chanced a look at the corpse lying before her. Hog's mask turned to face her as he stuffed his weapon leisurely back into its holster. "She'll be right. Did the world a favor doin' him in."

The girl rose shakily to her feet, her gaze never leaving the cadaver. She stared with hooded eyes as the blood seeped from the mess of his head. After what seemed like a moment of hesitation she delivered a blunt kick to the lifeless body's side. Breathing heavily, she wiped the snot from under her nose before lifting her foot once more to stomp on its abdomen with a labored grunt.

"B-bloody wanker," she stammered out over her quivering lip.

Hog watched as she stepped around the corpse to stand before him, her eyes flicking up to meet the lenses of his mask. She searched him for a moment before speaking up.  


"Are you gonna- kill- ... _metoo_?" she hiccuped between sniffles, trying adamantly to sound brave despite her obviously disheveled state. Roadhog looked down at her silently. Her face was swollen and glistening with tears, and stray strands of sweaty hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks.

He shook his head once before turning to exit the room.  


The girl shuffled behind him with weary obedience when he paused to usher her to follow him with a slight jerk of his head. The two made their way silently in single file down the creaky stairs and into the living area, where Roadhog stooped to gather the coins that lay across the floor. He stood with a grunt, shoving one sack of the money into the arms of the girl, who accepted it clumsily, holding it close to her chest.

"'S this one mine, or am I just helping you carry it?" she asked wearily, her voice much clearer now that her sobbing had subsided.

"Yours," Hog responded, stuffing the remaining sacks of coins into the side of his pants.

The kid's face lit up as she regarded her prize, pressing it even closer to her wavering form as they exited the abode. They were greeted with night when they stepped outside, the dim glow of the waning sun casting the sky in a dark ombre of purple and orange. Roadhog surveyed the area before turning to the smaller figure beside him.

"You hungry?" he rumbled. The girl slowly craned her head to meet his masked gaze before nodding feebly.


	3. Sylvie

"Are you a butcher?" came the small voice, piercing the silence that had enveloped the Hog and his unexpected company for the evening. Roadhog turned his head to regard the kid, whose attention rested on his abdominal tattoo. He shook his head. "Don't even eat meat."

The girl raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment, studying the tattoo for a few more moments before facing forward.

Roadhog chanced a look at her. She clutched her small bag of coins tightly to her chest as she capered along in spite of the dried tear streaks staining her face from the rather traumatic events that had occurred not long before. _Kids these days_ , he thought, facetiously.

She caught his lingering glance and beamed up at him before turning to look behind her when a beer bottle shattered in the distance. Soon, the two were greeted by a neon Take Away sign flashing steadily overhead with a droning, insectile buzz.

Roadhog sidled up to the window and lifted himself onto one of the bar stools with a grunt. The girl climbed onto an adjacent seat, shoving her treasure between her thighs for safekeeping and clasping her hands on the counter as they awaited service.

At last, Roadhog's time had come to indulge in a much-needed alcohol fix. He held his beer in satisfaction between his cupped hands, tapping on the edge of his glass in contemplation.

Beside him, the kid was greedily chewing a mouthful of battered sav, which she held daintily between her thumb and index finger, to Hog's amusement. Between bites she sipped sparingly on some form of carbonated drink. Roadhog lifted the bottom of his mask ever so slightly to taste his beer, and reveled in the lack of dialogue for several moments before obliging his curiosity to know more about her.

"Got a name?" he inquired, finally. The girl stared quietly into her drink as she blew bubbles through the straw, taking her time to supply an answer. Her shoulders swayed playfully as she suckled on the straw and swallowed with an audible gulp. At last she withdrew from the distracting beverage and cleared her throat, her eyes flitting up to the man beside her.

"Sylvie," she answered apathetically, running her fingers along the condensation on the edge of the glass.

"Roadhog," Mako returned.

The corner of the kid's mouth quirked into a small smile and she tilted her head at her now named acquaintance. "That's fitting," she said. "I was gonna call you piggy."

Roadhog raised his glass for another sip. "Could call you pipsqueak," he snorted. Sylvie chuckled heartily in response.

"Sure. Don't really like Sylvie all that much anyhow. Sylvia's what's my proper name, but it makes me sound a lot older, dontcha think?" she asked, twirling her straw between two fingers and smiling.

Roadhog shrugged stiffly, noting inwardly that the child had a way of trying to sound much more mature than she really was. He couldn't help but feel both amused and perturbed at the puerile voice that accompanied her fairly sophisticated mannerisms; and yet there was still a tremendous childlike quality to the way she spoke and behaved. He wondered what her home life was like, or if she even had one.

"The man you were with," he began, contemplating how best to inquire about the nature of her encounter with her recent aggressor. "You know him?" Sylvie lowered her gaze in discomfort.

"No," she said.

"You got parents?" Hog pressed further.

"Yea," Sylvie responded vacantly, fidgeting.

Roadhog suddenly grew uncomfortable and shifted in his seat. The easiest way to find out what kind of life she was living would be to ask direct questions. It was difficult to put it bluntly, however. Not only was she a kid, but he was a stranger, and saving her from violation didn't change that fact. It didn't allow him to pry ruthlessly into her life story.

Dealing with punks in the Outback was one thing - it was to interrogate through threats and straight-forward questions. Easy enough, if you knew what you were doing. Dealing with kids was a different affair altogether. There were words to be sugarcoated and bushes around which to beat - or were there? Mako was never one to sugarcoat his dialogue. This small creature had him thrown for a loop. Another swig of his beer. Two more. He was certain he'd rather wrestle a bunyip than ask a little girl questions about how she ended up selling herself on the streets of Junkertown.

He huffed, drumming his fingers on the table idly.

"Don't really wanna talk about it," Sylvie said after some time through a mouth of half-chewed food.

"Okay," came Hog's eloquent reply. He chugged down the remainder of his drink before slamming the glass down with a soft belch. From his pocket he produced a small handful of coins, which he dropped on the counter with a clatter without bothering to count. Noticing that Sylvie had only finished two of the five savs included in the meal that she had ordered, he added to the small pile of coins and requested another drink, which he downed much quicker than the first. Stress was a bitch, and this situation wasn't helping.

As the night hours dragged on and closing hours approached, the two were eventually shooed away from the takeaway window and forced to occupy themselves elsewhere.  
Roadhog didn't possess a watch but he was aware that it was late and that he was tired. He walked with the child for a short amount of time around the area before pausing to address her with slight dread. He cleared his throat to gain her attention.

"You know the way home?" he asked. Sylvie's eyes widened at the implication of his words and she began fidgeting.

"No," she answered, sounding hesitant. "Can- Can I come with you? I'll- leave straight in the morning, promise! I won't be a bother. I'm real quiet when I gotta be."

Roadhog stared. He couldn't care for a kid. Buying her dinner was one thing; an easy favor to make up for a less than fortunate experience. He'd never been fond of sleepovers, though, and he certainly wasn't a babysitter. She seemed mature enough, sure. Ten or eleven, he figured, but she was a child nevertheless. He shook his head, and did what he knew best to do in situations like this, where words failed him miserably and actions spoke louder.

He fished out a bag of coins from his pants and placed it on top of the one currently occupying the girl's arms. In return Sylvie's eyes widened and her brow knit. She tried to speak, but was silenced when he placed yet another bag into her arms. One more. He lifted his hand to offer a thumbs up to bid her farewell before turning to leave. Her call stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait- please," she pleaded. "You don't understand. My parents- it's because of them- it's because of them that I- that I-" Her voice wavered and it sounded like she might cry. Hog groaned inwardly before turning around halfway to regard her. And there it was - the waterworks. Sylvie shifted the coin bags to one arm and wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. "Please," she said once more.

Roadhog was silenced by inner conflict. This was what happened when you tried playing the good Samaritan. Surely he didn't have it in him to watch over a child. He'd shot a man in the face point blank today, hadn't he? _That was different_ , he concluded.

"Fine. Come on," was his curt reply. Sylvie's face lit up at his words anyhow, with relief more than excitement.

"Thank you," she said finally as they made their way towards the gate.

"Yea," Roadhog rumbled, defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters thus far, I know. They'll get longer as things develop.


	4. I can do better

The night was accompanied by a slight chill which prickled Sylvie's bare skin with gooseflesh as she followed Roadhog across the expanse of Junkertown's outskirts. The man said so little that it was easy for her mind to wander as they made their way beneath the starry sky. 

A plethora of emotions swirled within her as she considered her actions and where they were taking her. She wondered if following this man home was worth it at all. She wondered if, since she was outside the gates, maybe she could slip away without him noticing - or caring. 

No - that would only ascertain an early fate. She needed to survive. She knew that much.

They arrived after a trek without dialogue at a large building skirting the edge of a cliff. The land beyond was like a deep ocean floor. Silhouettes of windmills and shapeless heaps of scrap made up the shipwrecks of the oasis beyond Junkertown; a vast prison in which so many were wasting away.

Hog stepped up to the door of his abode and busied himself with the padlock. With a grunt, he pushed open the massive wooden sliding door and stepped inside with Sylvie warily in tow.

The place was spacious and dusty, and Sylvie was met with the musk of motor oil and old wood as she shuffled further into the building, pausing in the center of the room to look around.

Her head swiveled slowly as she absorbed her surroundings. There were tools on the far wall. A motorcycle twinkling beneath the flickering lights above. A refridgerator. Beside it, a wooden counter with a single pot set on a lone burner. Stairs leading to somewhere yet unknown. Secluded in a corner, a large bed, caved in through the middle; his, she assumed.

She turned to say something to Roadhog, who had begun stripping off his harness and shoulderpads. On instinct, she averted her eyes.

Some time later she heard him sigh and watched him disappear through a doorway, his pants sagging slightly to reveal a coin slot, which was quickly hidden as he reached back to hoist them back up again.

After a moment Roadhog returned with something hanging limply from his hand. He offered it to the girl and waited silently as she held the material out in front of her, which unfurled to reveal to her a T-shirt so large it could have sufficed as a sleeping bag. She looked up at Roadhog with a crooked smile.

"Nightgown," Hog said simply with a shrug. 

Syvlie slipped the shirt over her head and it swallowed her small form, the bottom gathering as it touched the floor. 

"Cozy," she said, grinning sheepishly. Though large, the shirt allowed her much more comfort than the clothes she wore beneath it, which exposed her to chill and unwelcome eyes; not that anyone besides Roadhog could see her now. Still, a sense of security washed over her.

Hog nodded before setting to work on something for her to sleep on. 

Some hay, a bedsheet, and several empty sacks made up Sylvie's pallet, which he sculpted into a sort of nest against the wall at the foot of his own bed.

When he finished, he stepped back and gestured to his creation unceremoniously before turning to retire to his own bed.

Sylvie shuffled over and plopped down into the concave center of her pallet. She lay back rigidly and crossed her arms behind her head, listening with slight contentment to the creaks of Roadhog's mattress as he settled into a comfortable position. He hadn't taken off his mask, she realized with curiosity. Maybe he needed it for some reason.

An object hurdled unexpectedly from the bed above and landed with a soft thud over Sylvie's face. A pillow. She smiled into the cool fabric and sat up to place it behind her. 

"Thanks. G'night," she whispered towards Roadhog's feet, which jutted from the edge of his bedframe.

"Night," he rumbled in return.

Sylvie lay back once more and nestled her head into the pillow. She was exhausted, yet sleep was shy to take her. Part of her was in a state of disbelief over the events of the day. Another merely opted to shrug it off as a blessing. A blessing in the form of a masked man who seemed to have some sort of obsession or kinship with pigs.  
\--

A nudge against the curve of her back woke Sylvie from a relatively dreamless slumber.

"Breakfast," came Roadhog's voice from above. His boots scuffed across the concrete floor as he made his way back towards the small table at the other end of the building.

Sylvie's eyes cracked open and she stared at the wall before her, blinking the sleep from her eyes, which were swollen from the tears of yesterday. Her body was sore, and she was reluctant to move for some time. Gradually she lifted herself from the pallet and sat up, looking around. She watched Roadhog gingerly set two plates on either side of the table before turning to select something from the fridge, which jerked open with a sharp squeak.

Fear suddenly clouded her waking brain as the circumstances of their meeting the prior day caught up with her at once. He had killed without flinching. It had been a favor, he had said. He was right. _He was right_.  
He had done the world a favor.  
He had done it for _her_.  
Hadn't he? 

Sylvie clutched one of the coin bags that the man had forced on her person. She opened one of the sacks that made up her bedding and placed each coin bag inside, tying the opening into a crude knot. Hers. She would need them. She placed the sack aside and slowly rose to her feet.

Now seated, the Hog regarded her with a slow pivot of his head as she approached. The round, foreboding lenses of his goggles gleamed at her.

The chair wailed against the concrete floor as Sylvie scooted it back, lowering herself to sit across from him. 

"Hi," she said. Roadhog grunted in response. He held a fork with considerable delicacy in his right hand, the other reaching to lift his mask just enough to expose his mouth. Sylvie was spared only a scant glance at his chin and jaw, peppered with silver stubble, before the mask swallowed up his face once more.

Her eyes flitted down to her own plate, which was piled with eggs, some sort of vegetable medley, and a pancake sans syrup. 

The two ate in relative silence before Roadhog stood to wipe off his empty plate with a rag. Sylvie chewed a mouthful of pancake and eggs as she watched him work like a housewife at the wooden counter.

When he finished, he set the plate on an unstable shelf and returned to sit across from her once more. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed his eyes were on her as she finished up her meal. She watched him too through the bottom of her glass as she chugged the remainder of the beverage. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and released a watery burp, which made her scowl.

"Thanks for brekkie, Hog," she said, standing. There was something endearing about her thankful smile as she attempted eye contact with him through the mask. "Hope it's okay to call you that."

Sylvie placed her bare plate alongside his and made her way back towards her pallet, where she knealed to collect the sack containing the coin bags. It was time to make good on her promise to head out. It was a difficult decision on which to act, but she was sure she could find her way somehow with the money he had given her. She only hoped to avoid any run-ins with individuals such as the man who had sought to violate her the day before. She decided she would die before letting another person touch her that way.

She held the sack limply at her side as she sidled back over to Roadhog, who was still seated. His mask tilted downwards momentarily to regard the sack before lifting to face her.

"I 'ppreciate yesterday lots. More than you know, really. You didn't have to- help me out back there. Cheers, piggie," she said. She nodded once before turning to depart. 

The baritone of Roadhog's gravelly voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned around halfway, unsure of what he had said.

"Sit down," he repeated.

Sylvie made her way with slow vigilance back towards the table and seated herself, blinking at him in confusion. 

"You were sold to him," Hog said. "The drongo from last night."

Sylvie's head lowered and her eyes burned with the threat of tears. There was a prolonged silence as she visibly struggled to bring herself to articulate her situation to the man. Finally her head jerked up and she met his waiting gaze with wide, tearful eyes.

"I'd never do it myself, Hog," she replied at last, her voice wavering. "My mom, she was- we were gonna up and leave Junkertown, but she didn't think we'd- ...m-make it. That was before-" She swallowed abruptly. Her throat felt knotted and words fought to escape her.  


Roadhog waited, knowing she wasn't finished speaking. He could sense her reservation.

"She loves me, Hog," she began after a long pause, sniffling. Her brow furrowed as she considered her words. "She- loved me. She said if I gave him a good lay-" The girl was a sniveling mess. Her quivering index finger rose to accent her words. "One lay- Just _one_ -"  


There was no telling what expression Mako wore behind the ambiguity of the mask.

He listened patiently as the child churned out her story to him through a crescendo of sobs, her words fragmented and mostly senseless. But he understood. He understood enough to feel disgusted and concerned, even in spite of how selfish living in the post-Crisis Outback could make a man become in the incessant struggle to subsist.

"That's why I can't go home, anyway. I'll go anywhere but," Sylvie said suddenly, some time after relaying to him what she was at first reluctant to share. Hog mused for a moment.

"Where to then, pipsqueak?" he asked.

Sylvie merely stared. She might have been thinking, but in vain. It didn't matter. Mako had made his decision.

"Then stay," he said.

"Huh-?" the girl breathed.

"Stay here."

"Stay here with you, piggie-? 'Til when? How long?"

"'Til you keep askin' questions and I change my mind," Mako replied. "You can stay. Parents won't miss you."

 _I can do better_ , he thought.

Sylvie wasn't sure how to process this at first. Of course she was fearful of this man who she technically knew nothing about. The choice of who could and couldn't be trusted was dire in Junkertown, and this notion had been instilled in her ever since her young mind had gained a semblance of maturity. Yet, something inside compelled her to trust him. He had saved her. Fed her. Surely if he had the intention to hurt her, he would have acted on it by now. Then again, her parents-

It was true. Her parents wouldn't miss her. As far as they knew, the man who had bought her had used and discarded her by now. Goods and services, and all that. They had their money. That was all they cared for. A daughter in exchange for a way to get by for some time before a sacrifice would once again need to be made for sustenance. So it was, and so it would be. Perhaps she couldn't blame them. You did what you had to in the Never Never.

Here she was, then. 

If the ones who had brought her into this world were willing to give her away - to deem her expendable - there was a chance she could after all risk trusting someone she only just met. 

She realized, then, that it was in her best interest to accept Roadhog's offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For he's a hospitable Hog.


	5. Animals in the Wood

Sylvie persisted in offering some sort of assistance to return Roadhog's favor of taking her in. He wasn't one to waste his time arguing, and he figured that there had to be _something_ she could do to perhaps be of use. So, with a sigh, he obliged her.

He decided that it wouldn't hurt for his armor to receive a good polishing before he set out to scavenge and acquire more Hogdrogen for his mask. Thanks to the surplus of money he now had via the coin bags, he wouldn't need to haggle with Bruce back in Junkertown for the canisters. It didn't always pay to kill, but it was a pleasant surprise when it did. 

Now that he considered it, the coins were payment enough for the girl to crash with him. 

Too late now, though. If she wanted to help, then help she would.

Roadhog gathered his armor and stooped to drop it in a pile before her. From his pocket he produced a rag and dropped it delicately on top.

"Need 'em later when I head out," he said, bracing a hand on one knee as he stood. Sylvie nodded and lowered herself to sit beside the pile of armor, reaching for the rag.

Roadhog set to work on collecting several pieces of metal, which he carried over to his tool chest. Adjacent to it was a crank-powered machine, through which he fed the metal to produce ammo for his scrap gun. 

Sylvie sat on the floor a ways behind where he labored, holding a spiked shoulder piece between her knees. She worked to buff its surface in a rapid back and forth motion, taking care to remove the dried mud. Once it was clear of removable blemishes, she placed the shoulder-pad aside.

Beneath the other articles of armor in the pile, something jutting from the bottom of the pile caught her attention, and she reached for it next.

The object slid with a grating noise across the concrete as Sylvie pulled it towards her. She noted that it was particularly heavy. When she held it up to better examine it, she observed that it was some sort of weapon - a jagged question mark; a hook, to be precise.

Even beneath the dirt and grime, the surface of the weapon glinted malevolently in her grasp as she looked it over. She grabbed the rag and worked it around the spikes protruding from the inside curve of the hook, and immediately took notice that the crud caking the spikes came off a deep red on the rag. Sylvie tensed as a realization came over her.

Blood.

Whose, she wondered? Someone innocent? Another mongrel like the man whose face the Hog had muddled right before her eyes? An animal? The last possibility was the least probable, but she considered it nonetheless. Roadhog had claimed that he didn't consume meat, but perhaps there had been an occasion where such a choice couldn't be made.

Sylvie squeezed her eyes shut and shook the thoughts from her head as fear seeped into her gut. She channeled her growing adrenaline into scrubbing away the grime harder until the metal gleamed through.

By the time she was finished with her task, her hands were sore and covered in dirt. She stood with the rag still in hand and looked over to Roadhog, whose back was glistening with sweat as he continued to work the crank.

Sylvie sidled over to him and watched quietly by his side, shy to speak.

Roadhog's elbow came into contact with her shoulder and he turned his head slightly to regard her.

"Finished?"

"Yeah," Sylvie replied. "What's that for?"

"Ammo," Hog mumbled, pausing his labor momentarily to demonstrate his point. He pulled his gun from the holster and gathered a handful of the freshly-ground scrap from the trough of the machine. The scrap spilled from his palm with a sound like rain as he poured it into the barrel of his shot gun before returning it to its place on his back. 

Sylvie let out a small noise of acknowledgement. She considered the pain that Roadhog must have caused to anyone who bore the brunt of the weapon, and found herself once again thinking back to the prior day.

 _Good_ , she thought. _For him, at least_. He probably now rotted where he lay, forgotten by the world. She wondered how long it would take for someone to discover his corpse. She hoped it would be a while, and that he would no longer be recognizable as a human being. Because he wasn't. Not after what he tried to do to her.

Again, tears rose to blur her vision, but she blinked them away and continued to observe Hog in his work without another word.

Eventually Roadhog stopped cranking and turned to Sylvie with an outstretched hand. When the girl blinked up at him, unable to read his silent cue, Hog wordlessly plucked the rag from her grasp and used it to dab the sweat from his skin; the scant area of forehead not covered by the mask, across his arms, beneath his armpits. He pocketed the rag when he was finished and shuffled off to gear up.

Sylvie leaned against the edge of the counter and watched as Hog fastened each piece of armor to his person. Lastly, he knelt for the hook. He examined its surface with a slow tilt of his head before reaching behind him to connect the bottom of the hook to a chain coiled around a sort of spool at the back of his belt.

Soon, he was by his motorcycle, filling the leather sidebag with supplies. 

"Ah, Roadhog?" Sylvie pushed off of the work table behind her and joined him beside the bike.

"Goin' out for a while," Roadhog said simply, as if already knowing what she had intended to ask.

"Am I going with you?" the girl asked. Hog's mask turned to face her before shaking slowly in negation. Sylvie opened her mouth to protest, but Roadhog spoke first.

"There's food in the fridge. If you get bored, you can clean up. Floor hasn't been swept in a while."

Roadhog nudged the kickstand to his motorcycle with his boot and led it outside. Sylvie followed behind briskly, her mind in a panic as she wracked her brain to convey her feelings towards being left behind. Another attempt to speak to him was interrupted when Roadhog lifted himself into the seat of the motorcycle and it roared to life.

" _HOG_!" she shouted over the din of the engine. He turned his head. 

"You're leaving me here alone?" 

"I'll be back before sundown." She couldn't go. There were reasons why.

Sylvie placed both hands on Roadhog's forearm, practically clinging to him.

"What if someone comes, Hog? What'll I do if someone comes?" 

The motorcycle rumbled through the following silence.

"Then you kick 'em where it hurts, pipsqueak," Mako said.

Sylvie released his arm and backed away as he revved the engine. The bike swung around, leaving a cloud of dust behind as it tore across the dirt. Sylvie watched it shrink away into the distance until she was left in silence, her ears ringing and the smell of smoke and gasoline hanging in the air around her. A bird shrieked overhead, and she turned to go back inside. 

The echo of her footsteps scuffing across the floor was the only company that she had now in the spacious building. Roadhog's presence was intimidating, but she preferred it to the echo and the silence, which seemed to be much worse. When she reached the center of the room, Sylvie paused and stood clenching the excess of the shirt that he had given her to wear. She sniffled. How long would 'before sundown' be? 

She decided that this time she wouldn't cry. 

A broom.

She needed to find a broom, so that she could sweep. Best to keep busy. She wanted to make sure that she could stay welcome here. Surely the man wouldn't kick her out, she thought, but his patience seemed rather thin. 

Slowly Sylvie made her way around the room in search of where the broom might be located, but it was nowhere to be found. Instead, a ladder near Hog's bed caught her interest. Somehow she had overlooked it until then. When she ascended it, she found herself in a small living space with a television and a wonky couch.

Sylvie approached the television and picked up the remote. She backed slowly to sit on the couch as she pressed the power button. When was the last time she had actually watched television? 

Most of the channels that the satellite received had poor reception and offered nothing but waves of static washing over a blank screen. Eventually, there was a news channel. They spoke in distorted voices about a vigilante lurking the streets of Dorado, Mexico. _Click_. Some sort of commercial about business opportunities in Sydney. _Click_. A far outdated children's show featuring costumed characters of various species. 

_Bananas_  
in pajamas  
are coming down the stairs...  
  
Sylvie set the remote to her side and lay her head back, drawn in by the innocence of the display on the television. It was comforting to watch friendly creatures living carefree lives, even if their qualms were ridiculous in comparison to the real world. She could use an outlet, and this would do.

After some time, her eyes grew heavy and she napped. A sudden raucous eruption of static woke her with a start, and she reached for the remote to turn the TV off. Had Hog come back yet? 

Sylvie descended the ladder and searched for him, but was only met with silence once again. But there was the broom, tucked away near the exit.

It took some time to gather the layer of dust on the floor, along with crumbs and other such debris. Once Sylvie had a pile collected, she pushed it with the broom towards the door to rid of it.

When she stepped outside, the sun was still blaring overhead, and Sylvie figured that there was still plenty of time before the Hog would make his return. Perhaps now that she had swept at least, she would explore the outside perimeters of Hog's abode. That would be much more exciting than tidying up, anyway. She leaned the broom against the wall and hopped down the stairs.

The smaller buildings in the area offered nothing of interest. Their only occupants, aside from bugs - which Sylvie wanted nothing to do with - were inanimate objects; generators, broken down cars, shabby furniture, and old rusted signs. Such things were a dime a dozen, especially around Junkertown.

Sylvie found that the view from the cliff was quite stunning in the daytime, however. She watched birds soar overhead and squinted at tiny figures trekking across the oasis beyond. She wondered how far Roadhog had gone, and where to. He hadn't said. Perhaps she'd ask when he got back.

An acrid stench led Sylvie to the dunny, which she decided she didn't care to use. Better to squat out of sight, if she could. The smell was unbearable, even with the door shut.

A cacophony of flies buzzed within the lopsided structure, and Sylvie stood with her nose crinkled before kicking the side of the outhouse as hard as she could, which upset its inhabitants. Their droning buzz only grew louder and more chaotic. Several flies escaped through the crescent-shaped hole in the door, and Sylvie swatted them away with a grunt of disgust.

She turned on her heel and walked back towards the building where Roadhog resided (could she call it her own home just yet?) and spotted something that hadn't caught her attention before. There were several silohs surrounding the building, and she craned her head as her gaze followed them up to the sky above. She then took in the area altogether, along with the surrounding buildings that she had explored. It was a farm in its entirety. 

The building that Roadhog called home was a barn.

Did this mean that the man was a farmer? Perhaps he had been, but no longer. There were so many questions that she wanted to ask him. 

Sylvie wandered to the left side of the barn and was faced with a rickety wooden fence. She leaned against it to peer through a crack to see what might lie behind it, if anything. Her brow knit at what she saw. 

There were several slabs of wood jutting from the dirt.

No.

They were graves. 

Sylvie stepped back, blinking.

Had the Hog lost people he loved and cared for? Family, perhaps? Had he lost them and buried them himself? Her gut wrenched as she pondered how it might have happened. It could have been the machine people. She had heard that the machines had driven so many from their homes, including her own family. She hadn't yet been born to witness it when it took place, but people talked, and the general consensus was that the machines were murderous and couldn't be trusted. It was possible that they had killed Roadhog's loved ones, and this was why he was alone. 

Sylvie's curiosity drove her to scale the fence for a better look at what lay beyond. Names, perhaps. Some clue to who these graves belonged to.

She braced one foot against the fence and it swayed as she hoisted herself over the top with a grunt. Her hands were riddled with dirt and splinters when she lept to the ground on the other side. Wiping the debris on her shirt, Sylvie stepped closer to the wooden planks erected from the dirt, lowering herself to one knee.

It appeared that something was etched into the surface of each grave marker, but it was difficult to see what it was from afar. Sylvie leaned in closer. They were drawings. Of what? 

The first was a sheep; a crude drawing of a sheep with small dotted eyes and fleece like a cloud. She looked at the adjacent grave marker. Another drawing, but this time it was a cow with the same dotted eyes and a cartoony tongue hanging from its smiling, U-shaped mouth. Sylvie's brow furrowed with thought as she examined the illustrations.

Her eyes flitted to the next grave marker, and this one in particular piqued her curiosity most of all. It was a pig's head, round and adorably cherubic with small, triangular ears. Its snout was a simple circle with a small X inside, like a button. Sylvie tilted her head. As she traced the grooved lines of the drawing with one dirty fingertip, she realized that the illustration resembled the one that Roadhog had tattooed on his belly.

The hum of an engine sounded in the distance. He was coming back. Sylvie looked at the drawings one last time, her gaze lingering the longest on the pig's face. As the engine grew louder, she scaled the fence once more. Her shirt caught on a jutting splinter of wood, and when she attempted to jump off, she was jerked back and fell to the ground with a thud.

The fabric stretched, and she was held fast to the fence like a dog. Sylvie stood, fumbling with the material to release herself from the fence, but she was unsuccessful. She saw Roadhog speeding closer and watched helplessly as the chopper came to a stop in a small cloud of dust. 

At first, the Hog took no notice of her silent struggle as he switched off the engine and lifted himself from the seat of the bike. Then he glanced over and saw the kid on her knees, the back of her shirt pulled taut. 

What was she doing outside, anyway? 

Roadhog huffed as he strolled over to approach her. She cleared her throat when he came to stand before her. He regarded her predicament without a word.

"Hi, Hog." Sylvie offered the man a feeble smile.

His response was a sigh as he shuffled over to free her. The shirt dislodged from the fence, but not without retaining a gaping hole where the fabric had caught on the splintered edge of the wood.

When Roadhog turned to make his way back towards his motorcycle, Sylvie watched him uneasily. She took notice of several scabbed wounds that hadn't been on him before he left. What had he been doing out there?

She followed him inside, the frayed fabric on the back of her shirt dangling behind her.

Roadhog was busy lifting a sack of something heavy from the side of the motorcycle. He hefted it over to his bedside and set it down with a grunt. The man hadn't said a word to her since he had returned, and Sylvie feared that something was wrong. Maybe he was planning to make her leave after all.

It was easy to jump to such a conclusion since the man seldom spoke.

Sylvie plopped down on her pallet and fidgeted as she watched the Hog meander about. He grabbed a canister from the sack that he had dropped beside his bed and leveled it in his palm, as if weighing the contents. Then he secured it to one of the air filters on his mask with a twist of his wrist and inhaled. He released his breath with a contented groan and tossed the canister aside before making his way to the fridge.

Hog stood with his back turned to Sylvie, who cautiously approached him from behind, her gaze locked on the wounds across his skin. She ventured to place one hand tenderly on the scabbed flesh and Roadhog bristled at the sudden contact, whirling to face her.

"What happened to you?" Sylvie withdrew her hand and curled it absently to her chest as she looked up at him. Roadhog stared.

"Nothing." A partial lie. He shut the fridge behind him and brushed past her to sit at the table. 

Sylvie blinked at him.

"I saw some graves outside," she said. 

There was no response for some time as Hog sat with a beverage in hand, his mask pointed downwards. He appeared deep in thought.

"There were animals. Drawings of them." Sylvie sat across from him as she spoke.

Roadhog sighed, his grip tightening on the glass in his hand. What was she on about? 

"Were you a farmer before the machines attacked?" she finally asked. Roadhog lifted his head to look at her before taking a swig of his drink.

"I was human," he answered after a long pause. "Made a living like the rest."

"Now you're a piggy," Sylvie said, and she meant well, but it sounded juvenille. "Is that why you won't eat meat?"

Hog snorted, as if to make a point.

"We're all animals," he said. "We do what we can to get by. You've seen it back in town. It's worse out here."

What he said made sense somewhat, but still she didn't understand why he was neglecting to directly answer her question.

"Yea," Roadhog began after some time, sounding hesitant. "Had some animals around here, long ago. Looters came. Could have left a few behind, but they killed 'em all and left a bloody mess instead."

Sylvie stared wide-eyed as he spoke. This was the most she had heard him talk yet. 

"Did they mean a lot to you? Your animals?"

Hog huffed.

"More than most people."

They were enveloped by silence once more. Suddenly Roadhog felt a small warmth on his hand and it twitched in response. Sylvie had placed her hand gently on his. When he looked to the girl, she was doing that thing again, where she tried so hard to see his eyes past the goggles of his mask.

"Maybe you're right, piggy," she said. "Everyone out here- we're all just a... a bunch of animals trying to make it, huh? But I think you're more human to me than anyone else."

Roadhog stiffened at her words. A small creature like her had no right to hit him where he lived with such a heavy blow. He cleared his throat as he pulled his hand away from her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lotta action here, but some development that is important to the story. Lemme know what you think if you enjoy. :^)  
> And thanks for reading!


End file.
